


The Darkest Hour

by Sarayburnu



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online, The Elder Scrolls - Fandom
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Snakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarayburnu/pseuds/Sarayburnu
Summary: The (most lore-compliant as possible) evolution of Mannimarco from young Psijic mage to King of Worms. If I missed something serious in terms canon feel free to let me know but at the end of the day I don't really care, I just wanted to write about black magicks and the Worm Man.I completely reworked Chapter 1 with the assistance of a very patient and talented friend. I intent to revise the following chapters as well, so Thank You for taking the time to read and perhaps reread.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For reading ambiance I recommend listening to Soothing Hymn from the Bloodborne soundtrack or Slow Motion by Sidewalks and Skeletons.

The air hung heavy and damp in the shadows of Ceporah Tower. Its foundation plunged into the earth like Hist roots while the spire refracted the light of the setting sun. Fog loomed at the edges of the clearing. It seeped through the crumbling stone and wound through the stunted trees, encroaching on the mage’s ritual. The mage stood nervously at the center of the clearing before a small stone altar. He could not afford to be discovered, although he had come close once before. He recalled the incident where one of his mentors had taken interest in one of his soul gems. It glimmered with an unusual brightness compared to those used by the other acolytes for novice spellcasting. He assured the master Psijic that it was nothing more than a trick of the candlelight and the matter was dismissed as easily as a dream. The mage’s dreams were heavy. They lingered long after he opened his eyes and he could hardly resist the curiosity they inspired. Lost in thought, a beam of sunlight struck his face as he knelt before the altar, reminding him that the wakeful state of day was no longer a refuge. 

Soul gem fragments and a small bundle of fabric decorated the altar. Inside was the crumpled body of a snake found commonly throughout the Summerset Isles. When he planned the ritual, Mannimarco envisioned a bird. In retrospect it would have been harder to explain a trail of feathers leading to his alchemical ingredients. He wrapped the reptile in an old robe and hid it behind a stack of books where it kept for three days awaiting the experiment. With shaking hands he unwrapped it from its shroud and placed it at the center of the altar. He felt like an artist stretching canvas over a wooden frame as he arranged the corpse into a neat spiral. It writhed desperately when he killed it. Now it was perfectly frozen in a pattern of his own design. 

Mannimarco closed his eyes. The birds had gone silent as the sun sank beyond the horizon and he strained to hear the wind that swept through the clearing. The wilderness had gone still and the only sound that reached his ears was his own fluttering heartbeat. He was afraid, despite his eagerness. If the strange magic he yearned for had a name, he did not know it, for The Order guarded their secrets surreptitiously. Their methodology was incomplete and each ritual felt hollow. Mannimarco felt the loss keenly with each lesson. He sensed what he so desperately sought after for a fraction of a second when he killed the snake; It was like a spark that scorched the very thread of Nirn. It was the sound created by a planet drifting through eternity. 

Magicka tinged the ends of his fingers as Mannimarco raised his arms into the air. He had to believe the magic was there like he trusted the moon to rise. He closed his eyes tightly. In his mind’s eye he envisioned the snake with its scales as black as onyx. He willed breath into its tiny lungs as he inhaled. He felt bile rise in his throat as a forked tongue began to flicker. The moment before he opened his eyes was agony. Whether wrenching himself from sleep or inspecting the results of tens of failed experiments, the anticipation was unbearable. 

Now seeing eyes watched him like two dark stars. Mannimarco beamed at the reptile below him, which was very much alive. He watched it crawl sluggishly amidst the stones before extending a hand gingerly to touch the scales. The snake lunged at him with unexpected ferocity and he could hardly contain the ecstasy of his success. It could sink its fangs into his flesh for all he cared. He had outfoxed death itself. Distracted, he nearly missed the snake disappearing through the cracks of the altar. Mannimarco marveled at how warm the creature felt in his hands. He did not have time to admire the snake for long as new changes rapidly overtook it. 

The halo of magicka that emanated from his palms was fading, taking the snake with it. He watched with reverence as it spasmed. It had served him well but next time he would do better. Mannimarco cradled the snake with both hands and looked at the starless sky through a break in the trees. The moon had begun to rise and from its position in the night sky he approximated the experiment had lasted two hours. He would need to hurry deconstructing the site before he was missed but his mind was swirling with new ideas. A larger subject would take more time to reanimate and would require more soul gems. He would need to account for--

The mage froze. Stretched across the grass in front of him was another shadow, although it was too dark to discern its shape. There was nowhere to hide. Just hours before the tower felt like a colossal guardian. Now Mannimarco felt hopelessly exposed as clutched the dead snake to his chest and waited for the inevitable. 

“Mannimarco,” the shadow whispered. “What in all Artaeum are you doing here?”

He knew that voice. Mannimarco felt the color drain from his face as he turned to face the intruder. He wished fervently that the voice belonged to anyone but his friend Vanus. The look in the other student’s eyes was fearful and sad. He had cast doubt on Mannimarco’s experiments innumerable times before and each time he was ignored. In that moment Mannimarco wished he had accidentally summoned a daedroth or a vampire lord. Death at their hands would have been merciful by comparison. 

Mannimarco would not remember what he said in return or how he tried to rationalize the creature’s resurrection to Vanus. Whatever the snake heard before finally succumbing to its second sleep, it took with it to Oblivion.


	2. Earthworm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime after his eviction from the Order.

_Stand upright with your feet planted firmly on the ground.  
Breathe deeply. Shallow breathing invites fatigue.  
Hold the dagger in the right hand while the left holds the empty soul gem.  
Poise the dagger to strike below the collarbone, approximately three inches from the thickest vein of the throat.  
Hesitation is fear.  
Fear is weakness.  
Strike with purpose, so that spilt blood is not squandered. _

The first time Mannimarco sank the dagger into the human’s chest, he did not heed his own words. It took the man minutes to die. The mage stabbed twice more, hindered by the writhing form on the slab beneath him. Each time he felt the blade slice through sinew and flesh before blunting itself on the flat bones of the shoulder. His hands were slippery with warm blood and for a second he feared his victim had enough strength to escape him. The man was a Nord hunter and Mannimarco was not strong enough to beguile him with illusion spells alone. Instead he struck from the shadows with a bolt of raw lightning as his prey stalked the woods for game. When the blast connected with the back of the man's neck, Mannimarco felt a surge of pride. He had bested the hunter in his own woods. The strength that ebbed from the slain soul was his by rite. He breathed a sigh of relief as the Nord’s eyes clouded over and the color drained from his lips. Mannimarco stopped abruptly to inspect the clearing around him. It was a novice habit, but he never forgot the Tower. Indomitable and resolute, but it was not enough to shield him. All was still and cold and he was truly alone. The soul gem in his left hand glimmered brightly. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Years later Mannimarco, former Psijic, still held the bloody dagger but did not work alone. This time the altar was a wooden table illuminated by sparse magelight. Beside it knelt several witches in black robes who whispered in a secret tongue. They held their grimoires aloft to catch drops of spattered blood and brought with them strange gifts. Defleshed troll skulls, hagraven feathers and glowing amulets. Mannimarco accepted them and felt their power seep into his veins. He was no longer dressed in tattered novice rags and shifted the weight of a cloak around his shoulders. Another offering from the witches. The catacomb that served as their meeting place belonged to a village somewhere in High Rock. It had been ravaged by plague years earlier and the bones of the dead were dumped unceremoniously down a freshly dug quarry staircase. Miners tools and rotten pulley cords were strewn throughout the passages alongside the bones of their owners. There was something invigorating about the place; The unactualized prosperity, the way the magelight flickered through the stacks of long bones. Above all else was the suffocating sense of despair. Mannimarco was well pleased.  
Gradually the witches dispersed into the darkness like murky shadows, leaving Mannimarco alone with the pile of corpses. As he stooped to return the dagger to the altar, an unusual shape caught his eye. It was a human skull, dusty but complete. It was a rare find in such a place picked clean by looters and nefarious acolytes. He held it at eye level, admiring the winding sinus sutures. He wondered absently what color the eyes might have been, and how they would have looked gazing up at him as he struck a dagger through their master’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this chapter is shorter than the first, I hope to convey the listless feeling that sometimes overtakes someone when they are thrilled with small successes but still have a long way to go before they reach their goals.  
> I listened to "Oblivion" on MyNoise, a free soundscape generator for this one.


End file.
